Tales of the Bard: Skyrim
by JLawrence Kenny
Summary: The Bard grinned knowingly. "It's true, I am unable to swing a sword in my defense. Yet there are others who would gladly follow me in pursuit of glory. The pluck of my strings will inspire them more than a battle cry. My Voice is a more powerful weapon than any blade. All I care for is a wondrous story. In the end, does it matter by whose hand the wyrm is slain?"


A/N: This story is as much an experiment in an idea for a novel as it is a fanfiction. Regardless, the idea of a Dragonborn who is unable to defend himself in combat has interested me for quite a while, and I decided it was fruitless to attempt to deny the story from being written. This will likely be more along the lines of a "walkthrough" story, though I'm not too familiar with Elder Scrolls fanfics. It is my hope that I will be able to keep it fresh enough that even the novelization will not seem too familiar to those that, like me, have replayed the game numerous times. Also, expect certain chapters that detail significant sidequests (like Meridia's quest) to be poetic and bardlike. If I keep this going long enough, DLC's will be separate stories after the completion of the main questline story. Likewise with faction questlines. Also, fear not, as none of my Author Notes will ever be this long again. Obligatory disclaimer and plea for constructive criticisms.

* * *

**_An Old Beginning_**

The forests of Falkreath buzzed with undisturbed wildlife. Birds fluttered to and fro. A bear growled as it gathered honey. A spriggan watched over all with a harsh eye.

A deer bolted off a path, as the incessant crunch of wheels rolling over cobblestones broke the peaceful morning. A procession of horse-drawn carts ambled down an overgrown road. Guards in brown and crimson armor guided the forses, the carts filled with men in garb of midnight blue and charcoal grey all bound at the wrist.

One of the carts stood out from the rest. While one of the occupants, a fair-skinned and light-haired man, wore the blue and grey found on those in the other carts, one was garbed in cloth of the finest make, a rag tied across his mouth, gagging him. The other two occupants were dressed in rags. One slouched forward, his dark hair obscuring his painted face, while the last, his skin even fairer than those around him, slumped to the side, unconscious.

The carts continued onward, the guards in high spirits, the prisoners subdued. The cart ran over a deep pothole, jolting the passengers around. The man in uniform hissed in pain, clutching at his side, almost missing the unconscious prisoner groan and move.. His eyes fluttered open, grey pupils hazy and dazed.

"Hey, you." The soldier's voice was warm, almost apologetic. "You're finally awake." The prisoner looked over, struggling to focus on the blue-grey uniform. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

The prisoner began to shake his head, but was interrupted by the angry voice of the thief. "Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now." He turned his gaze to the other prisoner, gesturing with his bound hands. "You and me - we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

The soldier's retort was biting. "We're all brothers in binds now, thief."

"Shut up back there!"

All the occupants threw a glare at their captor, some more vicious than others, but none were foolish enough to respond. They were quiet for a moment, surrounded by the sounds of nature and wheels, the prisoner swiftly regaining his wits. Finally, the thief jerked his head toward the last occupant. "And what's wrong with him, huh?"

"Watch your tongue!" The soldier looked as though he'd have struck the thief had his hands been free. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

At this, the prisoner snapped to full alertness, his attention fixated fully on Ulfric, while the horse thief merely looked stunned. "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you..." The thief tensed up, fear obvious in his voice. "Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

The soldier's response was calm, accepting. "I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."

"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening." The thief chanted desperately, in denial, his eyes darting around frantically, as if looking for an escape.

The soldier spoke again, in a soothing tone. "Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?"

He responded viciously, "Why do you care?"

The soldier didn't react, gently saying, "A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

"R-Rorikstead. I'm... I'm from Rorikstead."

The thief now seemingly calmed, the soldier turned to the other prisoner. His eyes were still glued to Ulfric, a hungry gleam in them, though not predatory. "And you, Breton?" At the prisoner's look of surprise, the soldier went on, "Your hand's gave you away. The long fingers."

The Breton glanced down at his bound hands with a melancholy grin, before he spoke. "Very astute." The Breton's voice lacked the harsh quality of a warrior. It was remarkably pleasant, something one would expect to hear from nobility, making his ragged clothes seem all the more odd. The walls of a town were within sight before he spoke again. "High Rock. Jehenna." The sounds of a quiet town drifted over the winds. The walls manned by more Imperial soldiers. As the doors of the gate boomed shut behind them, a voice rang out, "General Tullius, sir. The headsman is waiting."

The prisoners all turned in time to see a man with greying hair and ceremonial armor reply, "Good. Let's get this over with."

The horse thief began to lose his composure again over this declaration, fervently muttering prayers under his breath. The Breton looked around with curiosity, seeing as much as he could, while Ulfric exuded confidence. The soldier, by contrast, scoffed, sneering at the well-dressed Imperial. "Look at him. General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him." His sneer of derision was replaced with disgust at the sight of the black-robed elves. "Damn elves; I bet they had something to do with this."

Another silence fell over the party as they were paraded down the main street. The noises of the town quickly died down as well, all attention focused on the procession. A father's stern voice ushered his son inside. Town gossips murmured and pointed. In the distance, the sound of stone scraping across metal. The soldier began reminiscing about the town, Helgen, but they all knew it was meaningless drivel; anything to distract from their inevitable fate minutes away.

All too soon, the carts slowed, an Imperial captain shouting orders behind them. The thief looked up, as if the thought of their arrival was impossible to imagine. "Why are we stopping?"

"Why do you think?" the soldier replied grimly. "End of the line." The carts stopped, the soldier's removing the back side of the cart with a wooden thunk. "Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting."

The four stood, Ulfric leading the way off, even as the thief cried out, "No! Wait! We're not rebels!"

The soldier was now visibly agitated at the thief's cowardice, nudging him forward. "Face your death with some courage, thief."

He kept moving, but by now was practically hyperventilating. "You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

The voice of the captain from earlier cut above the thief's ranting. "Step toward the block when we call your name. One at a time!"

The soldier sighed in annoyance as he dropped from the cart. "Empire loves their damned lists."

The Breton chuckled at the gallows humor, then grimaced as he attempted to dismount the cart. Though the drop was but a few feet, he went sprawling in the dirt, gasping and grabbing at his leg in pain. The soldier offered his bound wrists to the man, helping him stand once more, noticing as he did that one of the Breton's legs looked almost deformed, walking with a noticeable hitch in his step. He gave no more notice, though, as his attention was drawn to another Imperial soldier with a list in hand. Recognition flashed across his face, even as the Imperial called out, "Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric." Ulfric spared a glance backwards, acknowleding the soldier silently, before walking forawrd to the Imperial. He looked Ulfric hard in the face, then, satisfied, made a check on his list. Another Imperial led Ulfric away, even as the first called out another name. March. Glance. Check. Down the list he went. Only once did he hesitate.

"Ralof of Riverwood." The soldier beside the Breton strode up to the Imperial, the two glaring at one another.

"Hadvar." Their gazes met with equal intensity. The Imperial looked ready to say something, but he broke his gaze, looking down at his parchment. Check.

Ralof looked simultaneously angered and disappointed. Before the other Imperial could lead him away, Ralof spat at the man's shoes, growling, "Milk-drinker."

Hadvar's gaze returned, doubly ferocious. "Traitor." Ralof scoffed again, even as another soldier encouraged him with the pommel of his sword. "Lokir of Rorikstead."

The thief moved forward, terror etched in his every feature. "No!" He screamed. "I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" When he realized no sympathy was forthcoming, he barrelled forward, knocking Hadvar and the captain aside, raving, "You're not gonna kill me!"

Thrown off-balance, the two Imperials could not move to stop the thief. The captain called for archers, but the twang of a bow had already reached their ears. The arrow screamed through the air, burying itself in the back of Lokir's chest. His body went instantly limp, its momentum carrying him forward, tumbling across the ground in a heap of limbs.

Regaining her composure, the captain gestured to the corpse. "Anyone else feel like running?"

The remaining prisoners tensed up, none wishing to share the man's fate. The headsman at least allowed them some manner of courage in the face of their impending deaths. "Wait, you there. Step forward." Hadvar gestured at the Breton, who complied. "Who are you?"

"Talao, of Jehenna, High Rock."

Hadvar perused his list, idly remarking as he did, "You from Daggerfall, Breton? Fleeing from some court intrigue?"

Talao shook his head. "A long time ago, something like that, but I'm a traveling bard. My companion and I had actually just left Helgen a few days ago, before we stumbled into your ambush."

The Imperial glanced up quickly. "Your friend got himself killed during the raid. Charging a line of archers was not his best move." Talao grimaced in disapproval, as Hadvar continued, "Captain, he's not on the list. What do we do?"

Talao looked visibly hopeful, but the captain merely replied, "Forget the list. He goes to the block."

"Come now, captain, be reasonable," Talao implored. "Merely talk to the innkeeper here, she'll confirm-"

"Enough!" the captain barked. "Unless the General himself confirms your story, I'll not risk a possible rebel escaping my grasp. Now get moving."

Hadvar's face showed genuine regret as Talao passed him by. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock."

Talao joined the crowd of Stormcloaks without hesitation, facing General Tullius, the headsman, and a Priest of Arkay. The General began his speech, sounding almost rehearsed, yet passion was evident within. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero douesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Ulfric grunted, his words obscured by the gag around his face. The intent behind those muffled grunts was fairly obvious though; the Jarl didn't care much for the Imperial.

Tullius plowed onward, louder than before, seeming to address the crowd as much as Ulfric himself. "You started this war. Plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now, the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace." A wave of agreement passed through most of the assembled townsfolk, while the Stormcloaks growled and glowered.

Suddenly, a shriek echoed across the mountain. All present lapsed into silence, looking around nervously. It was ungodly and exceedingly loud to have carried such a distance.

"...What was that?"

"It's nothing." The General's response belied confidence, but his eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius." The Imperial captain addressed the priest. "Give them their last rites."

Without any acknowledgement, the priest raised her arms to the heavens, her strong clear voice ringing out, as if to reach the gods themselves. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessing of the Eight Divines upo..."

"For the love of Talos, let's get this over with." One of the Stormcloaks interrupted the prayer, his rage clear at the blasphemy he perceived, stomping impatiently toward the headsman.

For her part, the priest looked utterly shocked, and more than a bit affronted. "As you wish."

"C'mon," the Stormcloak goaded, "I haven't got all morning," even as the captain roughly pushed him to his knees, pushing his head roughly against the blood-stained chopping block. "My ancestor's are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"

The wicked executioner's blade sand through the air as it descended. Crunch. Whunk. Thud. None of the prisoners looked away, even as the headless body keeled over and was dragged off. Ulfric looked on with sorrow. Talao with respect. One of the female Stormcloaks cried out, tears in her eyes, "You Imperial bastards!"

A chorus of jeers stirred up from the crowd in response. "Justice!" "Death to the Stormcloaks!"

Ralof inclined his head. "As fearless in death as he was in life."

"Next, the Breton!" Steeling himself, Talao took a step forward, only to stop as another shriek, the same as before, returned. It was louder this time, closer and clearer. Eyerone shuffled in apprehension; none had ever heard anything like it before, but there was no mistaking the roar of a true predator.

"There it is again. Did you hear that?"

"I said, next prisoner!"

Hadvar calmed himself, heeding the captain's orders. "To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."

Talao obeyed, but his eyes scanned the skies, paying no attention to his steps. As though his impeding execution was simply unworthy of notice. He did cry out in pain when his knees impacted the ground, but even when he found himself fully prostrate, he continued watching, straight past the headman's fearsome mask.

And so Talao saw it before the first frightened gasps began issuing from the crowd. The disembodied screech from moments ago was no embodied in the most terrifying figure. An enormous reptilian creature dropped heavily upon the central tower of the town, sending everyone stumbling. The it opened its mouth and roared. And the beautiful day instantly gave way to a literal storm of fire and chaos.

"DRAGON!"


End file.
